


A Phantom King

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Gothic, Major Character Undeath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: Seeking to bolster the rebellion against King Henry, Owain Glendwr summons a little help...from the dead
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	A Phantom King

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

**GLENDOWER: I can call spirits from the vasty deep**

**HOTSPUR: Why so can I, or so can any man./ But will they come when you do call for them?**

*

“I like this not.” Hotspur’s breath curled through the air- a white mist just faintly visible in the flickering candlelight. Wind whistled through the castle; rain hammered out a persistent siege on the stone walls. Glendower spoke words - of Welsh, or else some other language Hotspur did not know- under his breath like the rumble of far off thunder: low and indistinct, but thrumming with power, and Hotspur watched with his arms folded from as far away as it was possible to be from his wife’s brother’s father and yet still be in the same room. “I like this not,” he muttered again to Mortimer, who smirked.

“What, Harry, afraid of ghosts?” he murmured. “Or else afraid you’ll look the fool if it proves Glendower has real power?”

Hotspur scowled and moved away, prowling along the edge of the chamber until he stood opposite the doorway. If his hand fell to the hilt of his sword it was habit, and not a search for comfort. _Think any of you,_ he thought, his eyes searching from his Uncle of Worcester, to Glendower still chanting, to Northumberland who likewise watched the wizard- with his eyes like glittering gimlets, and his expression far too eager. _Think any of you that the King will be pleased with this?_ The dishonour of it all pricked at his skin- to sneak around in darkness, to practice rebellion while all the while speaking loyalty- Henry deserved to fall, aye, but openly, honestly; in battle, not like _this_ , not with wraiths and shadows and witchcraft- and an ‘ally’ it was impossible to be sure of. _Think you, father, uncle_ \- Hotspur thought, his stomach twisting in knots and his palms growing damp with sweat. The wind’s whistle became a howl; the rain hammered down faster, louder and Glendower’s voice rose to meet it, the thunder all at once very real and all around- lightning split the sky and lit the room with a white blinding white for a moment that stretched and stayed far longer than any lightning should and when it vanished out went all the candlelight with it; the wind dropped, Glendower and the thunder both fell silent- only the rain could still be heard through the darkness, a slow, soft patter-

-and ragged breathing.

Like a wolf- how did wolves sound when they breathed? Hotspur did not know. But he thought that it might sound a little like this, like a man could tell just by hearing that unless he went cautiously on his way, death lurked not far off from where he stood. The candles were growing brighter again- some magic of Glendower’s, or something else, Hotspur did not know, and was too transfixed by what the growing light revealed to much care how it came about. In the centre of the room a thin, filthy creature on the stones, its long limbs drawn a little inward, its naked torso a rockery of bone- spine, ribs-

-and a wound void of blood drawn like a chasm on his lower back. A tangle of hair- Hotspur knew that it would have been auburn, once, but dirt and grime

(and grief?)

seemed to have coloured it a wan, rusty sort of grey. It spilled in all directions, obscuring a face that Hotspur had never seen anyway, except stamped on gold and silver.

And lying in state at Westminster Abbey before his usurper had the corpse thrown into some obscure pauper’s pit. “Christ preserve us,” Mortimer swore, stepping hastily back and crossing himself. Glendower stared, eyes wide and face grey as he took in the proof of success, and Northumberland-

Northumberland began to laugh. “Well!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and clapping Glendower heartily on the shoulder. “It worked! It actually worked! Richard of Bordeaux, back from the dead.”

“Think he’ll be pleased?” Hotspur snapped, tearing his eyes away from the King and looking at his father. “You think he’ll be pleased with _you,_ father?”

“Hold your peace, nephew, if you this scares you run along to your wife’s bed and let the adults talk.” Worcester said.

“King Richard,” Glendower’s voice was suddenly hoarse. He shrugged off Northumberland’s arm and stepped forward, sinking cautiously to his knees before the naked, trembling corpse. “Can you hear me?” The King’s ragged breathing was growing less and less audible, and less obvious in the rise and fall of his chest until it seemed to have ceased all together once more. Hotspur shivered, the cold air seeping into his bones.

The King moved. He curled in on himself, shifting to his hands, his knees- he slowly sat upright and stared at Glendower. Glendower looked back, his face creasing into a faint frown. The King’s face was hollow, his eyes- not quite lifeless, but- Glendower repressed a shudder. What was done was done, and for the best- it had been agreed upon- and when they were done, Wales would be England’s father. If the Englishmen kept their word. And how would they dare break it, with this example of his power before their faces? Still – Christ preserve them, as Mortimer said; it was dark arts they were dealing with- a deal with the devil if they had in any way miscalculated.

But how could they have done so? King Henry had killed King Richard, and King Richard’s wraith summoned forth destroy King Henry in turn-

“Here.” Mortimer spoke suddenly, hurrying forward while pulling the cloak from his shoulders. “Noble cousin—” he dropped to one knee, throwing the cloak around Richard’s own shoulders, wrapping him up as with a winding shroud and fussing busily with the garment, his fingers trembling-

He froze as the King’s head turned slowly toward him, and his cold grey eyes settled on his face. Mortimer’s hands fell to his side, and he drew back as much as he could without actually moving, his heart pounding in his chest. The King reached out, frozen fingertips tracing softly over Mortimer’s cheek and brushing over his lips. The King’s head tilted to the side and he frowned a little. Mortimer’s mouth was to dry to let him swallow around the scream lodged in his throat- there was a strange look of consideration on his royal cousin’s face (if this was his royal cousin, back from the grave, and not a demon, but his lady had assured him- at least, he thought she had been assuring him; they could trust her father, and spirits would not harm those who had never done them wrong, and Mortimer could not be blamed for failing to come to his royal cousin’s aid against Bolingbroke- he had still been in his minority, then, he had not been _aware-_ and the King touching him like this, soft and almost- intimate- but looking like he was searching for something he couldn’t quite find-)

“Aumerle!”

The northern shout made Mortimer jump. The King sharply drew his hand away and his expression became dark, glaring.

“Wha-what?” Mortimer asked, eyes locked on that terrible glare.

“You look like our poncy cousin of York,” Hotspur said with a shrug. “A bit. It would probably be easy enough to get the two of you confused if you had seen neither of you for the last four years on account of being _dead_.” As the King had done nothing but sit still, and poke, Hotspur had found himself relaxing. The situation was odd, to be sure, but as the formerly dead former King did not seem inclined to attack anything- and as, if he did seem so inclined, Hotspur was fairly confident that he, in his chainmail and armed with a sword, could defend against a resurrected corpse with no weapon and no clothes who had, after all, already been murdered once- Hotspur was growing less anxious by degrees. Richard drew back from Mortimer, teeth baring slightly in a silent hiss. He looked back to Glendower, his expression sullen, and drew Mortimer’s cloak more tightly around himself. 

“I will have a chamber prepared for you,” Glendower says slowly. “Find garments- would you like to bathe? I can arrange- but you should rest, and in the morning, we can discuss…”

_In the morning, they would discuss nothing. In the morning, the Earls of Northumberland and Worcester would be dead; their throats slit, their eyes wide with bulging horror, their sheets stained with blood and soaked with piss; Hotspur would cry treason and in his grief slay a dozen good men before Glendower and Mortimer together subdued him._

_Kate Percy, when she awoke to a castle stinking of death and was told of what had happened- all that had happened- whilst she and the other women slept through last night’s storm stared and coolly asked how any of them had thought that King Richard would forgive the men who had sold him to Bolingbroke in the first place. He had murdered the Duke of Gloucester for a mere attempt at his crown when he was alive. Had they really expected him to be more merciful after his death?_

_And it was not until Kate asked her husband where King Richard- King Richard’s ghost, or shade, or whatever it was they had been foolish enough to bring forth- was now that Hotspur and his company realised that they did not know. The chamber Glendower had taken him to only a handful of hours before was empty. A search of the castle found nothing. The guards swore on their lives that no one had left, not by any gate where there had been a watch._

_Searching the castle chamber by chamber, passage by passage, tower by tower, produced nothing but shadows and the whistling wind._

_(At Court, King Henry’s flesh turns suddenly goosey, and a shudder streaks down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and instinct honed by decades of experience makes him spin round and look to see the danger._

_Nothing there. No one home, except himself. But Henry, breaking out in cold sweat, feels as though_

_Somebody_

_just walked_

_( out of)_

_over_

_his grave._

*

**KING RICHARD II : For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground**  
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:  
How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,

**Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed…**


End file.
